


so i say damn your kiss (and the awful things you do)

by SarahManningIsLife



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, Self-Harm, minor self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahManningIsLife/pseuds/SarahManningIsLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late at night, before you fall asleep, Beth doesn't say anything, but just kisses you. But in the morning, she looks at you blankly, and then with disgust, and starts to back away like a startled animal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so i say damn your kiss (and the awful things you do)

You don’t realize for months that you’re flirting with her. You don’t realize for months that you even like girls. And then, it feels like someone finally washed a dirt-covered, smeared window.

(You, Alison Hendrix, are in love with your best friend.)

Beth, you think. When you’re lying in bed you wish she was here, or you wish you were there, curled up against her. You wish that she’d nuzzle the top of your head and sigh and   
then fall asleep like that.

It’s a long time before you let yourself imagine kissing her. Pressed against a wall, in some remote place. Maybe behind a building. Your church, the library, your children’s school (although that puts you off a little). You think of the gun range, and how Beth’s body felt with her chest pressed into your back and her arms around yours, molding your hands into the right shapes.

(You wish you’d kissed her.)

That thought scares you, married woman that you are, but it’s too late.

You fantasize about telling her. Late at night, before you fall asleep, Beth doesn't say anything, but just kisses you. But in the morning, she looks at you blankly, and then with disgust, and starts to back away like a startled animal.

One of these mornings, you can’t take it anymore. The random memories of her brushing up against you that slap you in the face. The feeling that she looks at you like you’re something bright and clean in a dingy room. Damn it, Alison, you say to yourself. She’s isn't even single. So, you hunt down a rubber band. Test the springiness. See how big it is. 

And then you slip it around your left wrist. You slowly pull one side of it away from your flesh, and then let go.

It hits you with a loud snap, and it leaves a pleasantly red welt.

You smile, and add more welts when you think of Beth.

This new idea, this blockade, works for eight days. But it’s only an obstacle, and obstacles can be bypassed.

( _Snap,_ goes the rubber band, but you are immune.)

It’s your anniversary that day, and your kids are with their grandparents, and your husband brings home a large bottle of wine. He drinks four glasses over the course of the night, and you drink six.

Alcohol is a great thing, you find out. Your mind goes numb, and you can’t think straight. You can barely think at all.

So you start buying your own bottles of wine, and hide them in the gun locker that Beth got you for you for your birthday.

Drop the kids off at school, come home, and take a drink. Vacuum or plant flowers or do something vaguely housewife-y, and take another drink. Eat something, take a drink, and keep working through the numbness. Pick up the kids. Drive them to soccer practice. Go home, take a drink. Except on Thursdays, because that’s when you have to go the community theater. 

_You found a routine. Good for you,_ says the alcohol. _Keep drinking me. Drink to forget._

But you don’t forget. You keep snapping your rubber band until your wrist is a swollen mass of red and everything seems muffled.

(Except for Beth. Beth is clear and perfect. There’s no fog surrounding your mind when you look at her.)

One night, you’re alone. The kids are both at sleepovers, and Donnie is off doing something with his friends. A perfect opportunity to get drunk, you decide, and you drink until you throw up.

You find your pink phone and dial Beth’s number. You put her on speaker; you’re alone, after all. It goes straight to voice mail, and you call again three times consecutively without leaving a message.

(It’s far past midnight, and you’re wearing your checkered pajamas, and you start to sob.)

Eventually, you text her instead.

_Beth, I love you._

It’s not until five days later you find out that she jumped.


End file.
